Puzzle Pieces
by LunaDoodles
Summary: Three years since the day Sherlock plunged from the building exactly when John gets a text from a dead friend. With a bit of luck they might be able to pick up all the pieces and put their lives back together.


**Finding The Pieces**

It has been three years since the fall and John hasn't recovered. Exactly three years and John isn't looking forward to being treated like a widow today. He's mentally prepared himself for all the painful reminders that are to come. It's not like he doesn't find them everywhere he looks. He could never bring himself to take the skull off the mantel or the smiley face off the wall. He can't go five minutes without watching Sherlock hit the pavement in his head. As of now John is sitting in his favorite armchair with his eyes closed and the tea Mrs. Hudson made getting cold in his hands. He's doing his best to be nice to her, not to lock himself in his room and refuse to come out. He can't help feeling the anniversaries are worse, he should be used to the empty hole in his stomach that has been there for the past three years, but he's not. It took him awhile to get out of the habit of making two cups of tea only to realize that he's made an extra. He still finds himself making the extra cup every now and then. The limp has returned, he's back to hobbling around on a cane. He's back to his therapist who can only ever squeeze a couple painful sentences out of him before she gives up and calls it a day. It still hurts, not just the dull pain that comes from loneliness but the sharp piercing pain that came when Sherlock flung himself off a building for reasons John can't find. That often bothers him, never finding the reason Sherlock jumped. His therapist says it's because of guilt, guilt because he was lying. John never will believe Sherlock was a fake. He was with that man day and night and he knew for a fact that absolutely no one could fake that. But the world didn't agree with John. John's blood boiled anytime Sherlock was mentioned as 'that phoney lunatic that killed himself'. John found himself suddenly being flooded with memories. Memories of running through london at top speed, sitting at buckingham palace giggling like an idiot, Sherlock curling up on the sofa to sulk, Sherlock getting excited over homicide, Sherlock smiling, Sherlock laughing, Sherlock yelling, Sherlock falling. John stopped himself. He stared emptily at the wall, feeling his throat constricting and his muscles tensing. Beep. A text, probably from Molly asking him how he was. John stared down at his phone and found himself getting stuck at the caller id. He froze, this was a cruel joke. He opened the text:

Open the door.  
-SH

John felt as every little thing that made up the fragile world John had built after Sherlock left shatter around him. He got unsteadily from his feet and walked towards the door. This must be a dream, he'd had dreams like this before. They always ended with Sherlock falling. John wanted to wake up. He put his hand on the doorknob hardly realizing how shaky it was and turned it. He couldn't help but close his eyes as he opened the door. This wasn't real. This can't be real. He opened his eyes only to shut them again quickly. I'm going mad, I must be going mad. This isn't possible. John opened his eyes. Sherlock stood in front of him.

"No... No..." John mouthed as he staggered backwards. "You're not real, you died and I watched."

Yet no matter how many times John blinked Sherlock didn't disappear. Sherlock looked incredibly solid for an apparition. He also looked incredibly tired and thin. The purple shirt that used to be stretched tight across his chest hung limp and loose on his narrow frame. His cheeks were hollow and his cheekbones stuck out a extreme angles making him look skeletal and gaunt. Large dark circles lurked under his eyes.

"John" His voice sounded weak and raspy.

"Where have you been."

"I'm sorry"

"Sherlock, you died. You fell from a building and laid bloody on the ground. You were dead and you think sorry will cover it?! Do you have any idea what I've been through?" John was shaking.

"John I had no choice."

"What do you mean you had no choice?! DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THAT THERE IS ANY REASON FOR DOING WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!" John was shouting and he didn't care. Sherlock was alive and he left John alone for three years and he would get what he deserves.

"I had to john. If I didn't then you... Then you would have been shot along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." Sherlock's voice was quavering at this point. His eyes were wide and pleading.

John couldn't speak. His vocal chords had stopped working and his mind had gone blank.

"I think I should leave." Sherlock's voice sounded slightly hurt as he headed towards the door.

No, Sherlock was finally back and John had just chased him away. This wasn't happening. John couldn't let this happen. He ran forward a grasped Sherlock's arm. Sherlock stopped walking immediately.

"No, you're not leaving. Not now, not ever." John was surprised out how even his voice sounded considering how he felt like every organ in his body was exploding. John guided Sherlock to the sofa and had him sit before saying anything else. Sherlock looked incredibly relieved.

"That wasn't as bad as I thought. I was almost certain you'd hit me." Sherlock smiled just a little.

"Don't count it out yet." But at this point John was smiling too. "Bloody hell Sherlock when was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday... The day before yesterday..."

"Jesus Sherlock, It's a wonder you didn't starve to death."

"Heh... It's funny. Every time I went long periods without eating I couldn't help imagining you telling me off for starving myself." Sherlock chuckled a little bit.

John wasn't exactly sure how to reply to that. He found himself a little bit surprised that Sherlock thought about him at all while he was away. He was so caught up with what he went through while Sherlock was away that he didn't think about what Sherlock had been through at all. By the looks of it Sherlock looks like he's been through hell, bruises and cuts across his face, hands rough with bloody knuckles. John suddenly felt bad for not considering what happened to Sherlock at all.

"Well I'm going to go make you proper food so you don't die of malnutrition."

John disappeared to the kitchen to make Sherlock a sandwich and when he returned a bit later he found Sherlock asleep on the couch. John smiled and fetched his blanket from his room and laid it over the tired man.

Sherlock remained like that most of the day, occasionally stirring or waking up temporarily to eat a miniscule amount of food before dozing off again. John had never seen Sherlock sleep so much in his life. It was all very surreal with Sherlock back, it felt like Sherlock might dissolve any moment leaving no trace behind. Nonetheless it also felt right, life without Sherlock was empty and unbalanced and now he was back it John could almost feel his life being slowly shifted back into place.

Knock. John had almost forgotten about Mrs. Hudson.

"John, are you alright? You haven't left the house all day?"

"Yes, I'm fine! Just had a rough night at the clinic. Taking it easy." John had the feeling Sherlock had been exhausted enough by just dealing with him and wasn't ready for Mrs. Hudson to have a emotional breakdown that he was responsible for. John also knew Mrs. Hudson was about to walk into the flat and find an apparition asleep on the couch.

"Sherlock" John shook his friend gently. Sherlock stirred and opened his before sitting up. "Mrs. Hudson is about to come in, if you're not up to dealing with her you can camp out in my room." Sherlock nodded and got to his feet disappearing into Johns bedroom just before Mrs. Hudson entered.

"John, you've made a mess! Why is your blanket on the couch? There's a half eaten sandwiches on the coffee table! It hasn't looked like this for..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off giving John a sort of sad pitying look. "Well, you've seemed to have taken care of yourself. I'll give you some privacy." and with that she left the flat.

John heaved a sigh when Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot and went to check on Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling lying flat on his back across John's bed.

"Sorry, we got rid of your bed after... "

"It's fine. I'll sleep on the couch until we get a new one."

"No, you haven't slept in what looks like weeks. You can take my bed." Sherlock looked as though he was about to object when john threw his comforter over his face.

John woke up the next feeling a fresh stab of pain. He had had the most wonderful vivid dream. Then he heard a crash from the kitchen and realized he was asleep on the couch. It felt like a giant balloon had inflated inside him. It wasn't a dream. Sherlock Holmes was alive and breathing and in the kitchen. In the kitchen. What the hell was he doing in the kitchen. John quickly got up, grabbed his cane and hurried into the kitchen to find sherlock standing there staring blankly at a tea cup he dropped on the floor.

"Sherlock what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Making tea."

"For christs sake Sherlock go back to bed before you kill yourself."

"The cane is back." Sherlock stared at the stick John was propping himself up with with a certain amount of disdain.

"Yeah, the limp came back a few years ago." said John making an attempt to sound nonchalant while he pulled a bottle of pills out of the medicine cabinet.

"Antidepressants and antianxiety medication"

Dammit, John meant to take these when Sherlock was asleep. He still can't seem to adjust his routine. Sherlock's face had darkened slightly and he left the room. John felt like a small weight had settled just under his throat. He swallowed the medication and swept up the broken china that littered the floor. He started the kettle and stared at the kitchen table. Heh, the table won't be able to remain that clean for long. John made the tea and brought a cup out to Sherlock. Sherlock's face was blank looking, but John knew that look all too well. It was the same look John had worn for the past three years. The same look many of the soldiers had after the war. It was the look people get when they've been through something awful but they don't want to talk about it and they don't want to worry anyone.

"So where have you been Sherlock?" John plopped himself down next to Sherlock on the couch. John normally sits in his armchair but he feels compelled to be near Sherlock, almost just to make sure he doesn't disappear.

"I've been hunting down the members of Moriarty's remaining crime web. The people with orders to shoot you, the people in his inner circle. Anyone who poses a threat. I've stayed in various warehouses and with my homeless network."

John was taken aback. Sherlock had been gone three years making sure that when he returns that his friends would be safe. John isn't quite sure what to do. He settles with resting a hand on his friends arm.

"But it's over now. We're safe, or as safe as it get's."

Sherlock smiles wryly and relaxes a bit, sinking lower into the couch. It is a little weird seeing Sherlock so exhausted, he hardly argues when John orders him to eat.

The following week continues on in a similar fashion, Sherlock spending to majority of his time sleeping or lying in a state of half consciousness. John called the clinic to take a week off work so he could make sure Sherlock rested and ate. After about two days Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were reunited and Sherlock spent a few hours comforting a hysterical Mrs. Hudson and mouthing help occasionally to John who was eventually able to pry her away telling her that Sherlock needed his rest. Sherlock was once again completely exhausted and spent to majority of the day sleeping. Sherlock also soon learned that the best way of apologizing to John was ultimately doing whatever he could to take care of himself seeing as when Sherlock got up and tried to make food and drinks for John he was promptly hurried out of the kitchen and told to sleep.

It was monday and John was hurriedly getting ready to head to the clinic. Sherlock was still asleep in John's bed. They hadn't really gotten around to getting a new one so John has continued to sleep on the couch.

"Sherlock! Don't kill yourself while I'm away!"

John heard a grunt in reply as he rushed out the door. The clinic was fine as usual, John couldn't help wondering if Sherlock had eaten or if he had blown up the kitchen. He dealt with his patience and made small talk with the other doctors and nurses during break. As he was hurrying out of the clinic one of the nurses he worked with ran up to him.

"John! Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to go see a film with me tonight?"

"Ah, Sorry, have to get home." John gave her an apologetic smile and continued walking.

"You're in quite a hurry to get home. Got a girl waiting for you?"

"A girl? No, but Sherlock's probably blown up the kitchen by now..." John waved and hailed a cab. John smiled to himself at the look of mixed curiosity and shock on the nurses face as the cab pulled away.

When John got home he found Sherlock had brought his science equipment out of the boxes that Mrs. Hudson had stored it in. She never was able to give it away. Something was smoking on the stove and Sherlock's face looked slightly blackened with what looks like the result of a minor explosion in his face. The pot of smoking something was not emitting small sparks and Sherlock didn't do anything except take a closer look at it before scooping a portion out and examining it under his microscope.

"Jesus Sherlock what happened?!"

"Experiment." Sherlock waved John away without looking up from his microscope. John sighed and put a lid over the pot.

"Well at least you're not shooting holes in the wall yet." John shook his head and smiled a bit to himself at the memory.

"John, can you call Molly, I need a blood sample."

"But Molly still thinks you're dead Sherlock, you're going to have to go through the whole "I'm not dead sorry" thing before you can phone for samples to test."

"No, Molly knows I'm alive. She assisted me in faking my death. Now I really need that blood sample."

"Excuse me?"  
"What?" Sherlock looked slightly puzzled.

"So, Molly was in on this the whole time? When you realized you were in trouble where did you go? Molly? Really? You never thought to ask me for help? Let me know you weren't dead?" John felt a mixture of jealousy and betrayal churn in his stomach.

"John-"

"No, when in times of need go to Molly! Sweet little Molly! Did you send her weekly texts letting her know what you were up to?"

"John-"

"Drop in every week at her place for tea? Three years gone and the only person who knows you're alive is Molly!"

"John! Molly didn't have a gun pointed at her. I couldn't ask you for help or you would've been shot in the head. If you had put one toe out of line you would be dead and gone and I won't live like that." Sherlock had removed his gloves and safety goggles and stepping well into John's personal space.

"I could've done something." John's voice was almost pleading.

"John, you would've died. That would effectively kill the both of us." Sherlock's face looked strained and he was gripping John's shoulders a bit too tight for comfort. "I'm sorry. But I had to be make sure it was safe before I contacted you."

John didn't exactly know what to do or what to say so they stood there a bit staring at eachother. Sherlock's hands rested on John's shoulders and you could feel how tense the air is. John could feel the hole in his stomach gnawing painfully. Oh yes the hole was still there. Sherlock left a Sherlock sized hole in John when he left. The problem was over the course of three years pain gnawed at the sides of the hole until it was too big for Sherlock to fill anymore. There's only one thing for it isn't there? John had spent three years without Sherlock and now he was back. He had spent week hardly letting him out of sight for fear of him disappearing in a cloud of smoke. There was one last thing to prove Sherlock wasn't some figment of John's imagination. John closed the small amount of space between him and Sherlock and wrapped him in a too tight for comfort bear hug. John felt as every muscle in Sherlock's body tighten. He was paralyzed. It wasn't like Sherlock was completely foreign to this level of physical contact, but whenever he was this close to someone they were usually attempting to knock him unconscious or worse. This time it was a hug. Sherlock wasn't used to hugs. They were warm and friendly and displayed open affection. Everything Sherlock avoided. But he couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. It was a bit too tight and slightly constricted his breathing. But he liked the way John felt wrapping his arms around him and giving off a pleasant warmth. Sherlock decided John wasn't letting go anytime soon so he relaxed his muscles and returned the hug. This was a new sensation as well. John's grip had relaxed considerably and they stood there a moment longer wrapped in each other's arms. John wasn't exactly sure how long it lasted. He had gotten awfully distracted listening to Sherlock's pulse. Sherlock Holmes was alive. His heart was pumping blood through his body and John was sure that Sherlock Holmes was completely alive. They broke apart. Standing there a bit awkwardly. John offered to make tea and walked a little too quickly into the kitchen. Sherlock traipsed over to the couch and flopped down. Becoming quickly absorbed in his thoughts. He was able to recognize the chemicals he felt running through his body. He wasn't unfamiliar with them, he could handle them, disguise them, ignore them. But there was something. Something that he couldn't put his finger on. He didn't understand, he couldn't identify it. It was exciting though. A new puzzle. God did Sherlock need a new puzzle.

John Watson was breathing a bit quicker than he wanted to be at the moment as he poured water into a kettle. He was in need of a good cup of tea, it didn't matter what it was, tea always seemed to help. He sat down at the kitchen table staring blankly at the mixture of papers and whatever the hell Sherlock was currently using in his most recent experiment on the table. What the hell just happened flashed in bold red letters inside the mind of John. This was definitely not normal. Hugs aren't allowed to do this. John made a feeble attempt to organize his thoughts. He had hugged Sherlock. Okay. Check. He was now slightly light headed and his heart was racing. Right. Why is this effecting me this way. John went through many options and finally rationalized that it was just the fact that Sherlock wasn't supposed to be alive and that he had just hugged him. John is a master of lying to himself.


End file.
